A Setting Red Son
by CherryChokehold
Summary: Post-Thor but an alternate timeline in which the bifrost is not destroyed and Loki is imprisoned in Asgard rather than falling to his assumed death after Thor's return from Midgard. Thor is the only one who visits him in his confinement. An exploration of their relationship as family and as romantic partners. SLASH. LEMONS. Thorki.


AN~Okay. I'm new to this fandom. I just need to say that right off. I've done most of my fanfiction writing in a different fandom and made a new account for this one as a fresh start. I'm incredibly nervous about jumping into such an established one because most of you already have relationships with each other, favorite content creators, and ideas about how certain pairings and canon biz should be dealt with in fanworks. This is such a popular pairing that I know my take on it won't appeal to everyone, and I just ask that you recognize I'm new and give me a little leeway. The pairing I wrote in my other fandom was very, very niche and I was able to define that relationship in whatever way I wanted as a result and that's what I'm used to doing, but this is very much not the same kind of deal here, I realize. So, just be gentle with me if I get something "wrong" in here, Thorki lovers.

Er, fair warnings must be made here: I'm addicted to run-ons and fragments. I'm genuinely sorry if that hurts the grammatical sensibilities of some of you. I know some people absolutely hate it. I've tried to change, but, alas, some flaws are permanent.

Also: I'm a music junkie and I like to recommend songs for certain scenes. This fic was driven primarily by Zella Day's _Hypnotic_. It has this lyric in it: _locked up till you're moonlit/brushing my hair back/feeling your lips on my cold neck_. (Frost Giant neck-snog, anyone?)

But, enough of this talk, onto the porn . . . er, I mean, totally serious story not based entirely on them getting enthusiastically busy on each other's god bods.

* * *

 **1**

 **Maybe Just Once**

A year had slid by with nothing but dull heartbeats, and the endless pages of books I'd already read to occupy me. I didn't really mark the days, but I noticed them by the rising and setting of the sun daily changing the colors and shadows of my living space. Confined mostly to my room in that time it felt both like it had passed swiftly and taken a near eternity. That night I'd been out for one of my infrequent dinnertime allowances and Thor had come back to sit with me after like he sometimes did now that he'd started to forgive my little indiscretion during his time on Midgard.

There had been a sort of party that evening which meant everyone was louder than usual during our meal. And more annoying to me, but better still than eating alone. I knew that in regard to his entourage, it was more me than them which fueled my intolerance. There was a solid sphere of jealousy at the center of my annoyance—that they should get his attention when they weren't even that interesting as people. Actually, more that they should get it _over_ me. I wanted his loyalty and sole consideration—unless I was doing something shifty, but I preferred that he be waiting, ready to adore me when I'd finished-not off with other people, filtering endless drink through his organs like some pointless doll made to soak like a sponge and then dry out more degraded and hardened each time.

"I hate the way you laugh with them," I commented, not having to elaborate because he'd know who I was referring to.

He laughed then, although not the way I hated, the way he only did with me alone.

"Because our jokes are disfavored by you or because—"

"It makes you sound stupid. You're not as stupid as your company would suggest. I know drinking and bragging is fun but don't you get bored ever?"

"No. Not with you around, you'll never allow anything to become boring, Brother. And you're not immune to stupidity either in your attempts to avoid it."

He'd moved behind my chair and spoken these words close to my ear and then tousled my hair like I was some little pet, pushing it into my face. I would have kicked at him had he been in front of me, but I wouldn't turn and make an effort at doing it, knowing I would risk showing my unease at being touched by him if I did.

He leaned around to look at me, smiling cajolingly. I put my hand into the center of his grinning face and pushed him back. It was hard to do it when what I really wanted, had always wanted, was to pull him toward me. My brother, but not my brother. New information that had been sour at first but became more welcome after a little time when I realized it ended the perversion of my feelings for him-the only real holder of my heart in this realm or any other. I was bitter that this revelation had come at a time in which someone else had finally taken his own heart-that so sweetly blushing human girl he'd met during his exile. I knew he went often to Heimdall to brood and ask after her. I tried not to let it hurt me. After all, he didn't know.

And I comforted myself with the fact that he didn't return to her even while he could have with his ascension to the throne indefinitely suspended while the little squabbles which had broken out across the realms were calmed by Father. I hoped that he would delay a return to Midgard long enough for something to happen to prevent him ever returning there for her. I didn't necessarily want him wounded by her death or by her finding someone else but that unquenchably ambitious part of me, the one that had tried to murder him in my vain attempt at taking the throne, thought darkly that maybe a tragedy of some kind would drive him into my arms. It wasn't ideal. I wanted desire to be the defining factor, not desperation but my _own_ increasing desperation was making me think about that possibility more often, even to the point that I considered doing something about it myself. But that would not, of course, work out in my favor. He'd find out and then he'd be lost to me forever.

I tilted my head back on the chair and found him still there, looking down at me.

He pulled my hair back into place, and for a moment his fingertips stayed tangled in it, just brushing my scalp. I held my breath to stop from sighing or exhaling too loudly, to stop from doing anything that would give away the very precarious position I was in. Especially tonight when I was drunker than I usually allowed myself to be around him, drunker than him even which was almost never.

"You're troubled," he said.

"I'm not."

"Oh now, don't think you can lie to _me_ so easily, little bro—"

"I'm _not_ your brother." It sounded harsher than I'd intended, and I feared I had given away too much. I added, "Remember?" in a more sedate tone.

"You'll always be my brother. We don't need blood between us, Loki."

He came around the chair and sat across from me. He put his foot on the edge of my seat, and I resisted letting my knee fall against it.

"We don't need words all the time either, but I can see you're going to make that necessary this time," he continued. "So tell me."

"It's noth—"

"Stop. I thought you didn't like boredom, and this is tedious already."

"I'm just . . . regretting I didn't succeed in killing you," I said. It was only half a joke because, sometimes, I wished I had. It would have carved out this tiresome obsession and left me alone and able to become angry and hateful the way I wanted after discovering my true parentage.

He laughed.

"I'm sure you'll get a new chance someday."

"With luck."

I put my head back again, closed my eyes. Maybe he'd just go away. Maybe I would just drink more and get a nice, long sleep out of it. One without dreams, without _those_ dreams which I woke from sweaty and unsatisfied and pained in more places than body alone.

Then his hand on my face suddenly. I couldn't help it, I flinched violently and sat up straight.

"What are you doing?" I demanded. I sounded angry and I was a little-at being caught off guard and at not being able to control my reaction, at the way my heart was heavy and hurting in my chest.

"Testing. You never used to do that when I touched you. That's new," he said quietly, watching me in a way that made it impossible to turn from him without it being obvious just how serious the thing was I was hiding.

"You just startled me."

He put his hand back to my cheek, and I fought to remain still.

"And now you're trying not to do it."

 _Dammit, Thor. Please don't do this._

"I'm fine."

He raised his eyebrows to indicate he didn't believe this and something about that familiar expression was what did it. The wrong gravity of my love-the force that kept it secret-ceased in a moment, and I lost contact with caution. I floated, horribly untethered in that feeling.

"What reason would I have to do that?" I asked.

"If I knew I wouldn't be asking."

I exhaled a breath I hadn't been consciously holding that time and my body relaxed, making my cheek rest solidly against his fingers, my lips brushing the oval of flesh between his thumb and wrist. That small movement was the most revealing thing I had maybe ever done in my life—and definitely in relation to this.

His fingers curled, pulling away from me. He looked serious then and I knew that he _knew._ He'd leaned toward me to touch my face and although he'd taken his hand away he hadn't leaned back. I sat forward before he could speak, or I could think better of it and kissed him. It wasn't the first time this had happened, actually. A light kiss on the mouth as a greeting wasn't the most unusual thing in our customs but this was obviously different. The intent was very clear and when he didn't immediately recoil, I hoped.

But he did pull back then. Not far, but enough to see me. See my face, open like it rarely was—completely exposing the real, bright red purpose in my action.

"Don't tell me you've never considered it," I said, hating the encroaching slur in my speech as my more recent cups caught up with me. "I know you must have." I wasn't at all sure of this, in fact, I would have been surprised if he had, but I was possessed, like I thought maybe by saying it I could make it real. "Haven't you?"

Maybe he'd be kind and pretend for me enough to let me down easily.

"I . . . have not."

"Will you now?" I asked.

Might as well set a brushfire since I'd already struck a match. I had only his occasional company in my confinement at risk now and couldn't, at that moment, weigh properly how much worse it would be for me if I were to lose it.

"No."

He sat back.

Oh.

"No," he repeated. "This is wrong."

"We're not related really," I said, sounding slightly panicked and not caring. "You said it: there's no blood—"

"There will be if you don't cease this insane line of talk."

I was surprised that I was able to laugh at this moment, in the midst of mounting terror about the outcome of what I'd done. He didn't laugh, but he watched me. There was a silence in which he didn't leave, and my heart decided not to collapse completely just yet.

"Does this scare you enough you'd hurt me to prevent it . . .?"

"I'm not afraid of you," he said, like I'd compared my kiss to a battle I was taunting him for not entering.

"That's not what I said. You give me the reason that it's 'wrong,' then you threaten me . . . if you didn't feel something here you'd just say it. You're hardly subtle—"

"I don't. I don't feel whatever it is that inspired you to do that."

A lie. It should have elated me, but I felt vaguely sick instead because he was standing now, readying to move away. I grabbed at his hand and he looked down at me for a moment before shaking me off.

"You're just drunk," he said, and in it I could hear the foundation of him building up an excuse for what I'd done that was anything but what it really was: something that could burn us both to cinders whichever way it went.

"I'm not. I'm not that drunk."

I was, though. I felt even drunker than I had only a minute before and though it made my case less believable I was grateful for it because it kept me from imagining what the next day would be like with this new thing I'd added to our relationship looming grotesquely over it.

He left without saying anything else, and that's when I gave up. I didn't cry. I just stood there, trying to think of all of the ways possible to get out of it. I even considered going to Midgard! He wouldn't expect me to go there, and I could hide long enough for this to grow stale and maybe even seem like a sick dream of some kind for him.

But before my plans could grow too fevered he'd come back. By the light outside, which I hadn't noticed changing but saw its difference immediately in the way it reflected off his face, an hour or more had gone by. He was at least as drunk as I'd been before while I'd sobered considerably in that time.

"How long?" he asked, walking into the middle of the room and turning to face me, swaying a little.

I shut the door carefully before answering.

"Awhile."

"Before you knew that we weren't really—"

"Yes," I admitted. He'd come back, so I would be honest. "But I didn't think about it then. I agree that it would have been wrong." I didn't entirely, but I knew he'd need that.

"You didn't think about it then . . ." he said, more of a mutter to himself than a thought directed at me.

"No." That was true enough for now. I had brushed it away . . . most of the time.

He came at me fast enough that for a moment I was sure he was intending to hurt me in some way. I almost phased away from him, leaving only a shadow behind for him to pummel, but he stopped short directly in front of me, unsteady in his stance, but his eyes looked sober. He'd tried to drink it away and couldn't.

"But now, you think about this now?"

"Yes."

"I don't know what you think could possibly happen here."

"I didn't think. I mean, I never expected . . . to tell you ever."

"What do you want from me, Loki?" He said my name in a slow way like he was hearing it fresh, and maybe he was as it was not his usual address of me. He didn't really use it often except while taunting me.

"I don't know," I said, because it would bad to tell him what it was I did want as graphically as I could have. I went for sympathy. "You could judge me for so many things, I hope you'll let this one go. I didn't choose this. It's just . . . I see you."

"What do you see?" He honestly sounded curious.

"Everything. The things no one else sees. And I listen. I listen when you talk. Always. Even when you're talking to other people, even when _they_ aren't listening. You know that you say all sorts of interesting things I think people ignore because they only see you one way."

I lightly tapped his bicep, illustrating that most people didn't look much past his warrior qualities. He was the hero they needed in that way, and people don't require depth in their heroes when the heroism is a bi-product of violence. In fact, they'd rather not. Best not to make a solider, one to kill and be killed, too much of a person.

He was still, and not appearing to be about to run again. So I went on, my next words feeling the same speaking them as stepping deliberately from the side of a cliff might.

"I imagine a lot of things when we're apart. When we're together sometimes as well. Like I said about you talking. I'm not only listening. I also watch because of your mouth, because I can't stop imagining the way it might tas—"

He kissed me.

 _He_ kissed _me_.

And now I really was tasting his mouth the way I hadn't the first time it had been so brief. Mostly he tasted like what he'd been drinking. I wondered how it would change during other times and if I'd ever get another chance to find out.

He stopped and held my face to stay me from kissing him longer when I tried to keep going. He pressed his forehead to mine.

"You've done this before?" he asked.

"Um . . ."

"With other . . . you know."

"With other men?" I didn't laughed, but I wanted to.

"Yes."

"Just once." It was true enough. Only once in the way I thought he meant. A good handful of times for other things, but I wanted him to think I was just as ignorant of what to do next as he was. Like we were both lost and would find our way through it together. This desire was about more than just wanting him to feel less anxious about going further but also because I wanted us to be equals finally in some way and this was maybe as close as we'd ever get to that. The fact that I had slightly more experience made me feel good, confident. I was ahead for once. Probably. Now was the time to ask.

"I'm assuming _you_ haven't?"

"You'd win a bet on that."

"Not one with profitable odds. I mean, you couldn't even say it . . ."

"I'm not sure I can _do_ it either."

"Oh, I think you can," I said and for the first time since this had all begun I regained my usual self-assured—some would say smug—tone. I glanced down between us, and he followed my line of sight. I did laugh when he actually looked a little surprised to find he was definitely _ready_ if not perfectly capableof doing whatever might happen there with us. I briefly wondered if, because he had somehow not felt it until I pointed it out, he was maybe drunk enough to make this unethical on my part but then he was kissing me again, and I didn't care.

He shoved me into the wall where I got to actually feel his erection against my thigh. He'd shut his fingers around a good chunk of my hair and was holding me in place with it. I didn't mind. He could have whatever control he wanted if that's what it took for him to do this with me. I wondered for a second if he was this aggressive with the women he went to bed with and found that I wasn't jealous.

They were just women, after all, they weren't me. They didn't have what I had, what I could be to him.

Something toxic, maybe. Intoxi _cating_ , definitely. And never-ending, hopefully.

But whatever it was.

It was more than blood.

* * *

He'd left mid-dawn while I feigned sleep. Even after all that had happened in the night, I feared daylight. I feared his reaction to his own face in a mirror, where the evidence of my passion stood out bright against his skin under the edge of his jaw. It would be days before those marks faded, erasing our encounter. If in that time he decided that it had been a mistake when greeted by them each day, I would drown.

His hand had moved across my hip for a moment and then he'd pulled the sheet over me, leaving it loosely draped on my shoulder and moved away. Was it some kind of sweetness to cover me? Or was he hiding my body and what he'd done to it? I had marks on me, too. I'd risen to see them while he slept for a few minutes. The darkest one was under my collar bone to the right. It wasn't fully colored in and I knew I'd check it over and over again later in the day to see it deepen. It was shaped like a leaning, deflated heart. I could cover it almost entirely with the tip of my finger. I pressed it, and the hint of discomfort this caused honestly aroused me slightly. It was real. It had really happened. This was my proof. I pressed down again harder and then brushed it lightly, wishing it would never fade, hoping he'd refresh it for me when it did.

I turned onto my back as soon as I heard the door shut behind him and stared at the delicately carved patterns in my ceiling, thinking back to when I'd seen it in flashes during our forbidden extravagances of the night before.

Eventually it had been me who'd led us to my bed, but he followed me without a hint of hesitation. That was the thing about Thor: he didn't think about anything too much before doing it after deciding to go ahead. Once a challenge had been presented, he had to take it, beat it. I considered that maybe that's all it was. I'd offered a new, possibly dangerous, adventure to him and he needed to travel it. If I had been smarter, not caught helpless in an incurable state of want, I might have turned him down even though I'd started it. Instead I decided that maybe even if it was only once that maybe once would be enough.

I'd sat and then leaned back, tugging his hand gently, intending to bring him down next to me, but he turned his fingers in my grasp so our palms were facing and pinned that hand down beside my shoulder. He added his own weight to the bed, balanced on his knee where he'd pushed my legs apart with it. His hair fell forward, cutting off my view of the room beyond, a sheet of sunlight that obscured rather than revealed.

There we both paused. He was examining my face. I tried to look sweet, ready, and also like I was extending my call to follow me into something impossibly exciting-renewing the challenge.

 _Do it, Thor. Forget the taboo, the hurt we've caused each other as brothers. Let me show you what I could do as a lover-one who knows you so well I could recognize your face with only my fingertips in place of sight._

I brought my empty hand to his cheek.

He lowered himself to kiss me lightly and then turned his face under my jaw and inhaled. I nearly laughed again at this. He'd always been about scent. He smelled everything: his food, his clothing, the air of every room on entering. One of those things I knew about him that I was sure others never bothered to note. And now he was smelling me. Not for the first time as we'd been close enough in the past but this time, that combination of scents that made up the fingerprint of my smell was being irrevocably connected to this new type of moment-to my body under his, to sex even though we weren't there yet.

"What is this, Loki?" He asked, his question both auditory and tactile with the breath it took to form the words tapping against my skin with each syllable.

"What should it be?"

"It probably shouldn't be at all."

"And yet it is."

I moved my hand from his face down his chest and stomach to spell an invitation and a reminder of his arousal over the front of his pants—a harsh, multi-tonal sound from him in response. He grabbed my hand away and pinned it like the other, moved his knee upwards so his thigh was pressing my own erection and making a rich, dizzy ache break out all over my legs and stomach. That was the moment when it had gone far enough it would have hurt me for him to stop, and not just because of unfulfilled sexual need, but because it was a clear acknowledgement of my raptured state. He was recognizing consciously that I wanted him this way and was encouraging it. I moaned, raised my hips to his in a needy reflex.

"This should feel stranger," he said in a whisper against my throat.

I couldn't speak. I made a humming sound. I knew what he meant, but I didn't necessarily agree. From an objective view, yes, it probably should have but nothing with Thor could ever feel truly strange to me. He was the only reality I trusted. A sane and orderly world I orbited, spitting chaos into the darkness of space, but anchored by him so it never got too far from our atmosphere though it had poisoned our landscapes, filled the waters with rot too often. He always purged it, purified it after a time, cleaned up my messes like a good big brother should. I wondered if he'd be willing now to clean up other messes, maybe with his tong-

"You blush!" he said, pulled away from me and looking down.

"It's the drink."

"And yet it did not begin until now. Slow drink . . ." he said, grinning, mocking.

"Do you intend to fill this time with talk then? I'm usually the one to be doing that, but you'll notice even I know when to shut u—ughn!"

He'd released both of my hands and torn cleanly down the front of my shirt. I had thought I was prepared for any outcome once we arrived at this place, but because of his lack of forethought before acting, the enthusiasm did surprise me. I wasn't surprised often. I thought of his other possible bedmates again and still wasn't jealous but felt a weird kinship with them. Unusually lucky girls if this was usual.

"You're done with talk, but what of these pants?" He put his hand near the waistband, indicating he intended to remove them in a similar fashion to my shirt.

 _Oh, dear sweet Heven and Hel, had he gotten an education in cheap Midgardian pornography during his time there?_

"Slow," I said. I didn't really care about the pants in particular, I just wanted to tell him what to do. And I was nervous that his interest would be stalled by actually really seeing me nude and aroused. I wanted him as imprudently wanton as I was before that happened.

He undid the closure carefully. I rose on my elbows and angled my face under the fall of his hair. I kissed his jaw softly a few times, then under his jaw, down his neck. He paused while I did this, sagged very slightly into me. I left my mouth pliant for a few more moments, wanting him relaxed, so what I did next would be unexpected. He did exactly what I wanted, transferring his own weight onto one arm and allowing me as much access as I needed. I waited until he'd exhaled heavily and then breathed in again, deeper, and, I knew, intentionally smelling me. Then I bit him, hard, while he was busy memorizing my smell, so that it would be connected to that sensation. A reminder that I was unpredictable and unpredictable was interesting—for him even mesmeric. I felt sure he'd return again if he got enough of that.

He grabbed my hair and tugged my head back. He didn't look angry. A little bit amused, actually.

"I suppose I should have anticipated that you would be a biter."

"Anticipating isn't really one of your strengths, even for obvious things. But don't worry, I'll be nice if you didn't like that."

I already knew he had and this was confirmed when he responded by kissing me in a way that presented his lower lip to my teeth. I used them, but gentler than before. I didn't need to surprise him then, just stir up more carnality.

Then I was left hanging for a moment when he suddenly moved back away from me. But he'd only turned to sit on the edge of the bed so he could kick off his boots. They hit the floor with the specific thump of shoes at the end of a day when you're in your home and don't intend to go out again. My room-my bed-was now a place which he could treat like his own.

I scooted backwards, already barefoot, to the top of the bed, and leaned against the pillows. I angled one hip so the line of my waist was highlighted in profile. I knew how I looked, like a fucking advertisement for a dark chocolate dessert it's suggested you should be ashamed for wanting to consume even while it displays its attributes in the most libidinous ways.

But I forgot my own internal arrogance about my attractiveness very suddenly when he removed his shirt, exposing the severely exaggerated v-shape of his back. He turned and then smiled at seeing me so obviously posed there. He moved to the center of the bed on his knees and then grabbed my ankle and pulled me down to him roughly so I was flat on my back, my hair pulled up and away behind me.

 _Gods, he was strong_. I'd momentarily forgotten just how much and then I felt vaguely concerned about the possibility that he had frustrations he'd be perfectly happy to take out on me while I was merciless like this.

My fears were not confirmed—or at least they were delayed for a time—when all he did was lean forward and place a heavy series of kisses on my skin, starting above my navel and leading up to my collar bone. This was when he'd inflicted that heart-shaped bruise and when I knew that no matter how seductive I thought I was, how easy it was for me to find sexual companions, that he was better and had done this more. Besting me again, but one could hardly complain in that situation.

He removed my pants finally, pulling them away, not tearing, but also without looking, his mouth still doing the most inviting damage to the soft flesh at the base of my throat. He moved on to my chest, reenacting on one of my nipples a lighter version of my soft-then-hard bite pattern before he finally visually acknowledged the whole of my nakedness. I waited, feeling placid and cheeky, while he surveyed me. I wasn't insecure about my body, especially not the parts which would be of particular importance in a situation like this. Whatever misfiring aspect of my biology had made me small for my race had been kind to me in this area and I'd never gotten a disappointed reaction from anyone in regard to it.

"Well, we're _definitely_ not related . . ." he said after a moment, and I laughed out loud at the slightly disconcerted expression on his face and the honesty of this statement and what it had to mean in regard to his own anatomy.

"I'm sure you're fine," I said. "I've heard stories."

"Oh? From?"

"Women."

"Ones you were with?"

"Ones _you_ were with. Both, in one case."

He glanced down again and said, "I hope I was first then . . ."

"You were. And she was not unhappy with the experience if I recall. In fact, I still suspect that's the only reason she came on to me in the place . . . she was hoping for a repeat performance in a different color."

"Good to know that at least in one case you didn't dishonor our family name with one of your ventures. You didn't, did you? Nothing weird?" He asked, squinting at me.

"What's 'weird'?"

"You're not the only one who's heard stories . . ."

I grinned. "Were you listening very closely?"

"I already said I hadn't thought about this until now."

"No, of course not. You were completely innocent before coming back here just now and tearing my clothing off."

"I didn't say that. I just didn't think about _you_ that way."

I sat up so I could kiss him, and he followed me back down, this time with my bare erection pressed between us. I wrapped my legs around his waist and squeezed. He moaned harshly, the sound causing a vibration in his chest that reverberated into mine.

"Never fear," I whispered. "She went away with a commensurate knowledge of the many impressive attributes possessed by Odin's sons. Shall we do the same to each other?"

"I fear Laufey's offspring has already won here."

"I don't, but let's see."

I loosened my legs so I could reach the front of his pants. He let me undo them and then push them off his hips. I felt him come free, but didn't look yet. I ran my hands down the sides of his legs as I shoved his pants away, sliding my fingers into the smooth grooves of his muscled thighs.

I moved my hand back between us again and closed my fingers around him. He gasped and pressed forward into the touch. He was significantly smaller than me, but I wasn't let down. A bit relieved, honestly. I had no desire to be with someone who matched me in that regard. It always required a nearly exhausting amount of maneuvering on my part of avoid injuring my partners, and I'd prefer things be simpler with us.

He had to break my contact to dispense with the remainder of his clothing and then, finally, we were unclothed together at last, our skin fully available to any touch the other could want to propose for it.

I didn't pause in my own exploration, running my palms flat down the rippled surface of his back, cupping his relatively narrow waist and pulling downward so our stomachs met flush.

"What 'weird' things did you hear about me?" I asked. I was curious how much my previous conquests had talked and if the accounts had been closer to bragging than gossip.

"I heard you've often borne a handprint across your cheek following a tryst."

"And you found that weird enough to be labeled so?"

"Others did. Others would."

"But you. Did you?"

"I wasn't surprised," was all he said. "Is that what you want?"

"I wouldn't turn it down if you were willing, but it doesn't have to be this time."

I wanted to make sure to indicate that I expected us to repeat this encounter.

"Maybe another then."

More than my heart twitched at this statement. He wasn't immediately rejecting future couplings. I moved my hips, rubbing against him, so content at this turn of events that I almost could have stopped there, not even needing physical completion the other things having gone so well. I didn't, of course. I wanted him to do more, to take me, control me with his superior strength.

He pushed my legs apart further and applied the tip of his finger to a very specific place there.

"But this time, were you wanting this?"

"Yes. But . . . be careful. It's different than vagi—"

He smiled and it looked vaguely predatory. An expression I wasn't sure I'd seen on him before. My nipples contracted almost painfully at this, and I did hope that at another time, with that look, he would be willing to deliver a hand to my face.

"I said I hadn't been with . . . someone like you. Not that I hadn't done _this_ before with women."

I was amused that even with his hand were it was he still couldn't refer to sex with a man directly.

He brought his other hand to his mouth and inserted his first two fingers. I saw the sweep of his tongue pass with a smooth, subterranean motion along the inside of his cheek as he wet them with it. I closed my eyes, I couldn't bear this assault of ridiculously filthy imagery and expect to last very long once we'd started.

He put one hand under my knee and lifted it higher, almost to touching my chest and pushed the tip of one of those fingers inside of me. I writhed as much as possible being pinned like I was. I may have said his name but don't remember clearly because my mind had spun away in a thick fog by that point, it seemed to echo back but not return- like retreating thunder shouting after its bright sister lightning as she faded from the sky.

"More?" he asked and now I heard a change in his voice, an obvious note of anticipation which hadn't been there before.

Whatever his motivation had been before, be it curiosity or drunkenness or a need for novelty, he wanted to fuck me now. I nodded, I tried to speak, I couldn't but my assent was clear enough and he inserted the other digit he'd prepared for this purpose. I clenched my fists on the sheet, heard one side tear as my nails punctured the threads in the right place to separate them from the weave of their fellows.

I was so overwhelmed by that point I almost didn't register the moment when he replaced his fingers with the same length and depth measured out on another body part. This hurt a bit as I'd been contracted around his fingers and hadn't had the warning I needed to relax first. I did then as he pulled back and then pressed forward deeper. It took several more times of this until he was fully encased in me, his hips forcing my legs wider at the place when they met. Then he lowered himself down to me, exhaled a tropically heated breath onto my cheek.

He stayed still for several moments, maybe contemplating the extreme significance of this particular connection then he placed one hand under my back and the other on the underside of my thigh and flipped us, still hip deep in me.

He pushed me upright and placed his hand around me. In this position his face and all that played across it was plain for me to read. There was a steady beat of pleasure there, and a tension that I interpreted as guilt around his mouth. Both excited me perhaps unreasonably, but his touch was loose, unsatisfactory. I placed my hand over his, meaning to direct the motion and pressure I wanted, but he batted it away. He grabbed both of my hands and placed them flat on my thighs, holding fast to my wrists so I couldn't move them.

He thrust upwards, and the movement telegraphed a sharp arch into my spine. I moved back to meet him as much as I could against his restraining hold as he repeated this, picking up a rhythm that hinted at the skill of a born expert of erotic torture methods.

I tried to wiggle my hands free but he resisted me.

"You'll do what I want," he said.

"What of what I want?"

"Don't you like this?"

I did. Insanely, but I needed more. I was just edging at climax with only penetration as the purveyor. My hands tensed, my nails digging at my own flesh with nowhere else to go. I needed other stimulation, but I wouldn't beg. It finally resulted in a frustrated exclamation.

"I like it, _but I can't come like this!_ "

"You will. You'll do what _I_ want . . . _Loki_." he said, never slowing his thrusts. The way he'd said my name proved me wrong because the sound of it was what pulled out the keystone of my pleasure, making the whole structure collapse. What I'd thought was a barrier was just an illusion and I now understood the shock and disbelief of those who found themselves falling to their deaths in battles because I'd tricked them into jumping at a me that wasn't there. They passed through my projected self, screaming and helpless on the other side, and I was now their twin. My cry as I finished was so loud and graceless I truly expected guards, searching for an assassin, to be at the door in a few moments.

They didn't arrive, but the spasms of him trailing my climax did soon after. I had pictured his face contorted by orgasm many times, but it was even better in person. Not different but exponentially more lovely than I could have conjured in my imagination or my projections which I had done exactly once just to enhance a fantasy.

He finally released my hands and pulled me down rather tenderly to kiss me. His mouth now tasted different. Hot and electric. His sweat smelled of the air preceding a storm and I really understood like I hadn't before that I was in the thrall of a person who had control of not just my heart but the elements of the universe. I had mastery of a lot of things that ultimately amounted to just a controlled gathering of mist and light while he could intentionally channel the energy that ran the center of all life.

The god of thunder.

My brother.

But not my brother.

The energy that ran through the center of me.

* * *

 **END NOTES:** So, that's what I do, Kittens. And there's more of this already queued. This is a complete fic (except for one scene which I will get to tomorrow). I never start posting a story until I've finished the draft at least because I hate being left hanging and don't like to do it to others. Delays in posting are for me editing ahead. It's only about 16k for word count currently but that tends to grow as I work.

Possible canon issues (aside from the overt gayness): I've found a lot of conflicting opinions on if any of these people sleep. It's pretty well-established, I think, that Thor does not _require_ sleep. However, he doesn't need to eat either and he drinks like a goddamned viking, so I'm saying they will sleep for pleasure sometimes. And after pleasure, because, you know, that's nice.

And now I will sweatily beg for reviews: Please. Pet me.


End file.
